you’re so spoiled, I think to myself, feeling worse than ever. You don’t have any real responsibilities—not like Marisol, not like Candela, not like everyone else here. You never learned to control your temper because you’ve never really had to. But that tiny, furious voice hisses, No! That’s bullshit! Nobody should have to trade her last scrap of dignity for her family. This isn’t how things should be. This isn’t right.
